


Count the Ways

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo tries to determine if Sam is more than just devoted servant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count the Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Written March 2006

It was the bee that woke Frodo. Somehow the scent of flowers had woven itself into his dreams. He was standing in the garden, watching Sam hard at work weeding an already impeccable flowerbed, though Sam did not seem to sense his presence -- which in itself was strange, because Sam always seemed to know when Frodo was around. It was almost as if he had a sixth sense in regards to his master. But, then, that was the way of dreams. Reality tilted and stood itself on edge; perceptions were sharpened, or strangely skewed.

So when it suddenly occurred to Frodo that dream-Sam was totally naked, he was not especially surprised. When dream-Sam stood and gracefully stretched work-cramped muscles, Frodo did not think to look away. And when dream-Sam slowly turned , a smouldering gaze burning its way into Frodo's eyes, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Frodo to step forward and...

And that is when the bee's insistent droning worked its way into Frodo's conscious mind, and his eyes opened and he found himself alone in his large bed.

“Oh,” he murmured, in a small, disappointed voice. A curious finger stroked up and down the length of his throbbing erection. “Oh,” he repeated, and curled his hand around his aching cock, and curved himself around his slowly pumping hand, as if hiding what he was doing not only from any curious eyes that might peer into his room, but from himself as well.

 _No,_ he chided himself. _This is wrong. To dream is one thing, for that is beyond my control... but to touch myself and think of Sam... I shouldn't... No... not Sam... not my innocent Sam..._ But, as if with a mind of its own, his traitorous hand moved faster and faster until his breath came in short, ragged gasps.

“Uhhhgnh,” he moaned, imagining soft hazel eyes widening in pleasure, a sturdy body wrapping him in a warm embrace; imagining sinking into the heat, the welcoming heat of...

“S-saaaam,” Frodo sighed, and came in a long, shuddering pulse.

It was some moments before returning awareness of the bee intruded on Frodo's warm feelings of guilty pleasure. When he caught his breath, when lax muscles would finally obey, languidly, he rose from his rumpled bed. Settling his nightshirt demurely about his pale thighs as he made his way to the window, he carefully eased the casement open enough for the frantic bee to finally slip out to freedom.

He didn't mean to linger there, dressed in naught but thin cotton, but the sunshine pouring in through the bevelled panes caressed him with warm, golden fingers. The sweet spring breeze smelled of rich soil, a myriad of flowers and freshly shorn grass, scents that were forever intertwined with thoughts of Sam in Frodo's mind. The musk of his own spilled seed mixed with these tantalizing odours, and Frodo found himself gulping down great hungry droughts of the air, fervently wishing that Sam were there to breathe it too. Dizzily, he wondered if Sam would also find the earthy blend intoxicating, and he felt his eager flesh stir again at the faint hope that he might.

Frodo closed his eyes and let the fancy take him. That Sam would see him standing there. That Sam would instantly abandon whatever chore had claimed him; that he would stride across the garden and stretch his arm inside the window; that his hand would slip beneath the nightshirt and stroke up Frodo's leg until it met the hardened proof of its sure welcome.

And whether Sam climbed in through the window, or pulled Frodo out into the garden, the end result would be the same.

 _Frodo,_ Sam would sigh. _Ah, Frodo... Frodo..._

“Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo's eyes shot open and he spun around to face the voice.

Sam stood framed in his bedroom doorway, uncertainty warring with embarrassment upon his blushing face. “I knocked sir -- twice! -- but I reckon you didn't hear me,” he said, looking everywhere but at his master. "I-I made scones. They're warming in the oven.”

“That's very thoughtful of you,” Frodo managed in what he hoped was a normal tone as he quickly stepped away from the window. Lit as he was from behind by the patch of sunlight and with such clinging, revealing cloth besides... A blush stained his own fair cheeks at the improperness of his pose and attire.

Sam was already swiftly retreating back out to the hall. “I'll be off, then, sir,” he murmured, and was gone.

 _So much for him pouncing on me..._ A wry smile flickered across Frodo's lips.

Perhaps instead of shamelessly indulging in fantasy, he should permit reality to be his guide. For surely if he tallied up all the ways Sam was the perfect servant -- efficient, obedient, discreet -- then he would learn the true measure of their relationship. Sam thought of him as his employer. Any feelings of fondness Sam might harbour sprang from the fact that Frodo, as Bilbo had been before him, was a kind and generous master to work for.

A little twist of pain knotted in Frodo's heart at the notion that he could mean so very little to Sam, whereas Sam, of late, filled his every waking thought, haunted his every dream.

 _When did that happen?_ Frodo wondered. _When did Samwise Gamgee creep into every corner of my heart?_

It never used to be that way; though there was no doubt that Sam had been a sweet child, an endearing nuisance with his tag-along ways and endless questions. So bright, so determined. Then, suddenly, one day the child was gone. And in his place stood an equally bright and determined adult hobbit. But, ahhh, how different the body that housed the mind! Broad shoulders and strong arms...

Frodo sighed, picturing himself wrapped in the gentle strength of those arms. Imagining work-roughened fingers gently caressing his skin, sliding across his naked flesh with the same intense degree of concentration as they gave to the most tender seedling.

And there he was. Lost again to the fantasy. Aching and hard at the very thought of all he wanted to experience with Sam. Things he'd only dreamed about... read about... wondered about. Things that were wrong, so wrong, for one male to feel for another.

Yet he _did_ feel that way. Frodo could not deny it. And it had happened in a heartbeat. One ordinary day Frodo looked up from a ledger, his idle glance drifting out into the garden, and he saw Sam standing there, stretching his fingertips towards the sky, head tilted back, eyes closed, obviously lost to the small pleasure of easing his aching back. Frodo had seen Sam many times down through the years, but he had never really looked at him before. He had never truly noticed how the sun shone like gold dust in his hair, how his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Once Frodo started looking, he could not help but look again. Every day his eyes discovered some new treasure. Every night he wished that Sam might be his and his alone. He became a hobbit obsessed.

But the object of his affection had no idea of this inner turmoil at all. Sam did his work, he smiled his smiles and sang his songs... and then he went home without a backward glance.

Frodo buried his face in his hands.

“I can't go on this way,” he murmured. “I can't... I can't...”

But what other choice did he have?

If only he could purge this useless longing from his mind with some cold, empirical proof. Facts. He needed facts. The scientific approach! That was the way Bilbo had taught him to approach a problem. Never yet had that discipline failed to bring him an answer. Even if it wasn't always the answer he wanted to hear.

 _Very well, then,_ Frodo told himself. _Count the ways. Draw up a list of 'duty' and 'beyond the call of duty'. Settle this for once and for all. Put a quick end to all your foolish hopes before you embarrass yourself beyond recall._

The only problem was, could he make a clear distinction between the two categories? Where did duty end and Sam begin? The Gamgee work ethic had certainly never been remiss where the Bagginses were concerned. It was a longstanding point of pride with them that their Master be well cared for, his needs anticipated before he asked. Any number of the things Sam did as a matter of course could be attributed to the terms of his service and his strict upbringing. Still... Frodo smiled wistfully. Still... there were things that Sam did that gave him hope, things that would never occur to his more practical father or the staid hobbits of the Shire. Surely he could distinguish those moments from more commonplace deeds?

A list. A simple list. That should not be an impossible task.

Frodo nodded decisively. That was exactly what he'd do. It shouldn't take him long to collect his evidence and analyze the data. And then he'd graciously accept that which could never be.

But first, there was an urgent matter to attend to.

Frodo's hand ghosted down to touch the weeping tip of his rigid cock. “Sam,” he whispered wistfully, and closed his eyes.

~*~

There was no doubt in Frodo's mind as to what item number one on his list must be. And he need not step from this room to see it. His garden. His beautiful garden. The whole of it a jewel in the crown of the Shire, but when viewed from the unique perspective of his bedroom window... Frodo stood silently studying the wealth of flowers which never failed to delight his eye.

Bilbo had always claimed that no other spot in the entire garden knew such abundance as this small back corner. The plants grew taller; the blossoms larger, their perfume lingered more sweetly on the air. In the years since his uncle's departure, this was even more in evidence. Perhaps it was some rare combination of soil and sun? Surely, Sam did not shirk his duties elsewhere? No, never that! Those beds that faced The Row, doubtlessly they were of greater interest to Sam -- just as a matter of pride, for did not the the greater portion of Hobbiton pass them by? Why deliberately lavish attention on one secluded spot? After all, there was no such abundance of colour under Bilbo's bedroom window. Those beds were orderly and delightful, but not the rich profusion of blues and green that Frodo so enjoyed.

 _Blue..._ Frodo smiled fondly. There did seem to be a disproportionate amount of blue creeping into his garden of late. So many shades of blue... Had he by chance ever casually mentioned that blue was his favourite colour? If he had, then obviously Sam had taken that fact to heart and decided in typically thorough Sam fashion to give his master the colour he loved.

Frodo chuckled quietly to himself. It would seem each column of his list was to receive an entry. 'Well tended garden': duty performed. 'Whimsical choice of colours': above and beyond what was required. So, the opening count was even. Frodo pulled a quill and a little notebook from his nightstand drawer and entered the information in a careful hand, before turning his attention to other things: like what to wear this fine spring day.

Throwing open the door of his wardrobe, Frodo perused his carefully hung clothing and was about to select his favourite blue shirt when he recalled he'd pulled a button off the last time he'd worn it -- had pulled so hard that he had actually torn part of the cloth away. Frodo sighed and made a mental note to send the shirt home with Sam this evening. Perhaps one of his sisters might be able to mend the unfortunate damage? At the very least, she'd find some use for the cloth if the shirt was beyond salvaging.

But when he drew the shirt closer to inspect the spot that needed repairing, he found no buttons missing, no unsightly tear. Only the tiniest of fine stitches were in evidence, their careful work invisible once the shirt was buttoned. Frodo smiled happily.

Carelessly, he tossed his nightshirt to the foot of his bed and poured himself a basin of warm water from the ewer on his nightstand. The gently scented water provided much needed refreshment, and nicely washed away the tell-tale musk from his hands and sticky belly. He had donned his clothing and was halfway to the door when he paused, abruptly struck by the fact that the water was still warm. Obviously Sam had crept into his room earlier this morning to replace the night-cold water in his ewer.

Funny... Frodo had never given much thought to this before. He simply took for granted clean clothing, neatly hung or folded, and water warm for bathing.

Frodo knew that when he returned to his room this evening, the bedding would be changed and turned down in welcome. The discarded nightshirt would have been whisked away, a clean one left in its place. Quite likely there would be fresh flowers in the vase; the lilies were starting to lose their petals. And that, in Sam's view, was unacceptable. Only the best would do for his master: the best food, the best garden, the best of care.

Frodo suddenly felt he was the most fortunate of masters to have such a dedicated servant. What had he ever done to deserve such careful ministrations? Naught but pay out a few paltry coins.

For too many years, Sam had moved about Frodo's life like a shadow: rarely noticed, always there. What did Sam think about as he went about his day? More to the point, what did he think when he stripped the soiled sheets from Frodo's mattress? Did he see the tell-tale stains? Did he smell the scent of Frodo's seed? Did he wonder who his master dreamed of in his bed?

What if he knew that the spilled seed was spent for him? That Frodo ached... he burned... he needed... Sam.

Frodo shook his head. Such a thought would never cross the mind of that pure soul. But perhaps the chores were performed with more than average care. Perhaps these entries too must balance one against the other. Frodo's tongue peeked from between his teeth as he wrote 'tidy room', 'clean laundry' and 'changed bed linens' in the duties column, then shifted his hand over to write 'mended shirt', 'warm water' and 'fresh flowers' in the above and beyond category. _Hmmmm,_ he mused, chewing absentmindedly on his quill. _What should I make of that?_ Indeed, illuminating as his revelations were, the score was still even, and Frodo felt no wiser for the knowing.

Still puzzling over the matter as he wandered down the hall and entered his kitchen, Frodo found himself wrapped in the scent of scones as if the fragrance was a physical embrace. He stood there, swaying slightly, basking in the warm glow of the moment until his rumbling stomach and watering mouth propelled him into action. Carefully, he removed an overflowing platter from the warming oven and carried it over to the table. A plate, silverware, glass and napkin were already set out for his use; his chair was drawn back in welcome, the exact distance required for him to slip into the seat. Crocks of butter and various assortments of jam stood at the left of the table, a jug of milk floating in an only slightly melted bowl of ice chips waited to the right. A bowl of fresh-picked, wild strawberries claimed the honour of centre place, each berry carefully hulled and washed and dried, free of blemish, twig or leaf. When had Sam found the time to gather such a treat? It must have taken him ages to find so many berries this early in the season.

Frodo popped several berries in his mouth and let the flavour travel across his tongue. A second and then a third handful joined the first. Frodo's lips quickly reddened from the sweetly flowing juice, as did the tips of his eager fingers. Not wishing to waste a drop of this ambrosia, Frodo brought his hand to his mouth and delicately began to lick his fingers clean.

At the faint sound of the kitchen door opening, a totally engrossed Frodo slowly turned his head. It was Sam, delivering the day's supply of firewood. A blush only slightly less pink than Frodo's own sticky lips and fingers blossomed across the gardener's face. For an instant, Frodo couldn't find the voice to speak. Bilbo would have threatened to crack his knuckles for such a breach of table manners. Living alone was really no excuse...

“Eh...” he said, less than eloquently. “Um... Good morning again, Sam. Would you care to join me? For breakfast!” he hastened to add, as the rosy colour fled from round cheeks and Sam paled most alarmingly.

“Th-that's very kind of you, sir,” Sam mumbled. “But... but th' Gaffer's waitin' on me. We're to weed the Widow's garden this mornin'. I'll be back by noontime, sir.” Firewood safely deposited in its proper place, Sam fled.

 _There's really no other word for it,_ Frodo mused. _That poor lad was flummoxed , totally flummoxed. And for the second time today..._

But was that a good thing, or a bad? Frodo drew his notebook from his weskit pocket and studied the page with a furrowed brow. Breakfast and firewood... duties performed. Strawberries... above and beyond. Blushing incoherence? Did he need a third column? Frodo dithered and finally decided Sam's fluster was clearly out of the ordinary. He would place that entry in the second column.

“Confusticate it!” he grumbled. Still the score was tied.

Perhaps a walk would clear his head? Frodo returned to his room long enough to wash his face and hands and select a fresh weskit, his current one being somewhat the worse for berry stains and scone crumbs.

It was a beautiful spring morning, a tad soggy underfoot from all the rain they'd had last night, but still too lovely a day to be closeted in his study pondering over boring accounts and surrounded by dusty tomes. Frodo whistled a sprightly tune as he strode across rich green fields towards the dappled shadows of the forest. Perhaps there would be some elves passing by? Perhaps he might learn word of Bilbo...

Perhaps he might trip and sprain an ankle, and Sam would come searching for him...

How would it feel to be carried home in those strong arms? How would it feel to be crushed against that broad chest, pressed so tightly together that he could read the rhythm of Sam's heart? How beautifully Frodo's head would nestle against Sam's shoulder. How easy it would be to inch his face forward until his lips lightly brushed where shirt met skin. His tongue would trail up the pulse beating in Sam's neck, sweep across the jaw until it licked at Sam's lips, begging entry...

Frodo was smiling as he slipped between two whispering trees and vanished from Hobbiton's sight.

~*~

There were no elves present in the forest, nor did Sam appear to fulfill his passion-filled fantasies, but nonetheless Frodo was a happy hobbit as he made his way back home late that afternoon. What a feast he had found! He had chanced upon a magnificent mushroom patch, nestled in the lee of a muddy bank. The choicest ones were safely packaged in his handkerchief and rested atop the balance of the treasure which he carried in his upturned shirttail. Tangled curls fell in his eyes as he peered into the improvised basket. There was a large smudge of dirt across his cheek from where a careless hand had tried to brush those curls away. Matching streaks of dark, rich soil decorated his formerly pristine shirt and the seat of his trousers. Clumps of that same soil clung to his foot hair.

The Master of Bag End scarcely looked the role to the casual observer. But there was a set to his shoulders, a certainty to his stride that set him apart from the other lads out and about their business that fine day. Dirty-faced urchin he might well appear, but he was the Master above all. Hats were tilted in a gesture of respect as he passed. Respectful greetings were called.

Frodo's burden was considerably lighter by the time he trudged up Bag Shot Row. Many a hobbit would be dining on a fine side dish of mushrooms tonight.

But there was one who afforded the Baggins family no respect no matter how circumspect their attire, no matter how generous their nature. And the weight of her disapproving glance fell full upon Frodo as he wended his way home. In fact, there was no avoiding her cold appraisal, for she stood at his very gate, resplendent in a fashionable frock and one of those ridiculous hats she favoured.

Sam stood off to the side, his face crimson and his eyes cast down. No doubt he had seen the edge of Lobelia Sackville-Baggin's sharp tongue as he tried to convince her that his master truly was not home.

Frodo felt his own cheeks burn in anger. _How dare she,_ he fumed. _Her quarrel is with me, not Sam._ His footsteps quickened and he held his head a little higher, challenge in his eyes.

Lobelia's lips pursed in distaste, and she fluttered her fan in agitation. “Have you no common decency?” she spat in lieu of a greeting. Her gaze flicked to Frodo's bared midriff, and slid quickly back up to eye level. “Eccentricity is all well and good, Frodo, but there's no need for such a vulgar display.”

Frodo felt his face flush hot as Sam's shocked glance touched his naked skin, following the narrow arrow of dark hair from bellybutton to stomach... down... down...

Sam swiftly averted his eyes, his blush impossibly deepening in hue.

Frodo dropped his shirttail as if scalded. The mushrooms tumbled to the ground.

Lobelia sniffed and swept her skirts aside. “Perhaps you would do well to consider my offer, young Samwise?” she suggested waspishly. “Better wages _and_ a decent household as an influence on you. See what your father has to say to _that_.”

She was well down The Row before either Frodo or Sam found the wit to make a reply.

“Offer?” Frodo repeated stupidly. “She made you an offer?”

“Aye,” Sam mumbled, lowered gaze firmly fixed on his toes. “A generous one. But...”

“But?” Frodo frowned.

“I'd best be fetching a basket for those mushrooms,” Sam blurted, sprinting for the sanctuary of the tool shed.

Though he knew he should stay and help Sam gather up the mushrooms, Frodo was suddenly filled with the panicked need to be gone by the time his gardener came back. Heedless of the mess left lying beside his gate, Frodo dashed into the welcome refuge of Bag End, and closed the door soundly behind him.

~*~

_He couldn't look me in the eye._ Frodo sighed, settling into the fragrant water of his bath, half wishing he could sink beneath the foam and never resurface. _He was mortified... or was he simply repulsed?_ Neither option was positive in the slightest. _A good servant turns a blind eye on his master's indiscretions. He doesn't ogle him, given the opportunity. Well, I certainly gave him the opportunity today -- several times as a matter of fact! And every time he turned away._

Frodo stretched a wet arm out of the bath to reach for his notebook and pen. Thoughtfully, he gnawed on a fingernail as he replayed the day's events over and over in his mind and carefully re-read the entries he had made.

In all honesty, he had to admit that some of the arguments he had added to the "beyond the call of duty" column were weak, and could in fact just be good servanting or sheer speculation on his part.

 _Being 'flummoxed', for example,_ he mused. _Is that a good thing or a bad?_

 _Does it mean that Sam has no interest in me, or is he simply shy? Or... Oh Dear Lady! Did he interpret my behaviour today as a sexual advance? Is that what made him so uncomfortable?_ Frodo blanched at the thought, and shifted so uneasily in his bath that the water came dangerously close to sloshing over the tub's enameled edge. _How improper he must have thought my behaviour! What he must think of me!_

No doubt about it. Samwise Gamgee was a proper young hobbit. The Gaffer's strict upbringing had seen to that. It would undoubtedly never occur to him to lust after his master or stray beyond the bounds of propriety.

'Proper,' Frodo entered in the duties performed column. A vague term to be sure, covering a multitude of topics, but clearly Sam's strict sense of what was proper was a tremendous barrier to Frodo's hopes.

 _I'm just his employer,_ Frodo thought morosely. _He stays because I pay him to do so. It's all he's ever known. But now he has Lobelia's offer of employment to consider. A “generous” offer. Not that I couldn't top whatever figure she's named... but if I simply outbid her, I have bought his loyalty, not deserved it._

With a steady hand, Frodo also wrote 'did not reject Lobelia's generous offer' in the duties performed column.

_If he wishes to go, I must not beg him to stay. It must be his choice._

Droplets of bath water splattered on the page, staining it with a teardrop pattern, tears he would not let himself shed.

It would seem the balance was no longer even. And it was swinging against Frodo, as he had feared it might.

~*~

The hour was late when Frodo finally abandoned his now cold bathwater, slipped on his favourite bathrobe and wandered shivering down the empty corridors of his home.

Sam had long since finished his tasks for the day and had departed for home without his customary “good night.” Frodo didn't blame him. He too would have been hard pressed to make light conversation. Perhaps, by tomorrow, they could simply forget the unpleasantness of this day and continue on as they always had. Safe in their comfortable routine.

For however long that might last.

Frodo's steps quickened. Restlessly he drifted from room to room... seeking... seeking... something. He wasn't quite sure what it was he sought.

In his study, he discovered a carefully banked fire, freshly sharpened quills and a vase filled to overflowing with blue hyacinth. His favourite walking stick was burnished with a fresh coat of wax, the stains of travel cleaned away.

The fire in his bedroom was burning cheerfully behind the grill. The warm air was heady with the fragrance of early blooming roses. His bed was freshly made, the sheets turned back invitingly.

But there was no one here to share the vastness of that bed. Frodo turned and walked away.

Supper was simmering on the stove when he drifted into the kitchen. One of Sam's savoury stews, no doubt. The table was set, dirty dishes were washed and put away. Here, too, a vase of flowers graced the room. Lilacs, this time, their scent light and refreshing.

_Sam..._

It was as if a ghost breezed through his smial. A silent, tidy ghost that left no noise in its passage, and left behind only comforting touches that made his lonely smial into a home.

But Sam was not a ghost. Not like the memories of his parents, not like Bilbo, off adventuring, leaving him behind. Sam was oh so very real. So warm, the dancing hazel of his eyes, the smile that quirked his lips. His gentle, silent companion. So much a part of Bag End that it was impossible to think of one and not the other. There was no greater constant in Frodo's life, no greater joy or comfort.

It was at this moment that full realization struck Frodo. He was itemizing things for entirely the wrong reason.

It might well have been the youth's beauty that first caught Frodo's eye and sent hot waves of longing surging through his veins, but it was the kindness of Sam's soul and the keenness of his mind that had finally captured Frodo and sent him tumbling head over heels in love.

Beautiful hobbits were no rarity in the Shire. Many a lass had caught Frodo's eye... but no one had ever touched his heart. No one but Sam.

For Sam was as extraordinary a hobbit as Frodo had ever chanced to meet. His hands might spend their days grubbing in the soil, but his imagination remained unfettered down through the years. Long after he should have firmly pushed Bilbo's fanciful tales from his mind, Sam retained a love for rich flowing words and magical places that rivaled Frodo's own.

He was also as generous a hobbit as ever one could wish. Quick to lend a helping hand, even-tempered, fiercely loyal to friends and family. Respectful and respected, intelligent, compassionate... He was everything Frodo had always yearned for, but had never hoped to find.

Sam was the true companion of his heart.

And Frodo was in love. It was unbelievable... but it was true. He could not deny this unexpected reality.

But as real as his newly discovered feelings for Sam were, the dreams which stirred in Frodo's heart were not real. They were born of fantasy, of lust and loneliness. This was not some game he played -- this was his future he was trying to determine so casually.

“I'm such a fool,” Frodo whispered, feeling a sob catch in his throat.

 _Or, perhaps,_ he considered ruefully, _I am the ghost? Drifting through life... leaving little trace of my passage... touching no one..._

_An obligation, not a friend. Never more than that..._

_Who would notice if I faded away?_

~*~

Frodo's eyes grudgingly opened to face another day. His dreams had been tortured when at last elusive sleep had found him. Strange dreams of dark creatures pursuing him, of friends lost, and Sam crying out in fear...

Sighing heavily, Frodo kicked free of his rumpled bed covers and shuffled over to the sun flooded window. Squinting against the glare, he opened the casement and let his gaze drift out to the garden, touching on the wealth of blossoms there, passing beyond that bright kaleidoscope of colours to the plainness of his gardener's homespun shirt.

_Sam..._

The wave of longing that swept over Frodo almost sent him crashing to his knees. Blindly, he stumbled back to his bed and clung to the edge of the mattress, shaking with the force of his emotion.

When his heart calmed slightly, when he could breathe more freely, Frodo picked up his little notebook and quickly entered 'cleaned walking stick', 'sharpened quills', 'fresh flowers', 'turned back bedding', 'enriches my life' in the above and beyond column.

Notebook still in hand, he returned to the window and gazed down upon his gardener. Sunlight glinted off of Sam's hair in a golden halo. A breath of song drifted on the air.

'He's beautiful,' Frodo wrote in the above and beyond column. 'I love him,' he added, in a precise hand. He smiled to see the words he so longed to say written proudly in black ink. 'I love him,' he repeated. 'I love him!'

He stared at the words on the page. They flowed so easily off the pen... could they be that much harder to say? Surely, no one performed mere duty with such kindness and dedication? Surely, Sam felt more than obligation in his heart?

Thoughtfully, Frodo's gaze turned back to his gardener. The smile fled his face.

Sam's head was thrown back in laughter, one strong brown hand tangled in Rosie Cotton's hair as she leaned across the garden gate, lips pouting prettily.

A sharp intake of breath rudely shattered the sudden, deadly silence of his room. 'Rosie,' Frodo wrote in firm, large letters in the duties performed column.

And tossed his notebook into the fireplace.

~*~

Frodo's plans were finalized within a couple of hours. His bag was packed with all he'd need: a few clothes, a small purse filled with gold coins, Bilbo's old ring. More than that would only weigh him down. Traveling light was always for the best. The maps he had were not as detailed as those Bilbo favoured, but they would start him on his way.

His letter deeding Bag End to Lobelia was written. No witness to his signature, but who was there to contest it? He'd leave the envelope on his desk. Sa-- someone was sure to find it there.

Wearing his backpack and thickest cloak, he slipped into the familiar confines of his study. A cosy fire was lit, his quills were sharpened and waiting. They would never know his hand... Frodo's vision was blurred by tears as he bent to place his letter on the richly burnished oak of Bilbo's old desk. He almost missed seeing the little notebook neatly centred on a fresh sheet of blotting paper, its edges charred and curled, its pages opened to his confounded list.

In the above and beyond column, in a hand no less precise than his own and no less familiar to him, were written the words, 'I love you too.'

~*~

It was the bee that woke them.

Frodo's eyes opened to meet glittering flecks of green and gold. Like the morning glories that grew outside the window, his limbs were twined around his lover's, naked flesh pressed to naked flesh, till one could scarcely say where one ended and the other started.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Frodo to lean forward and press a soft kiss on Sam's smiling lips.

 _No doubt about it_ , Frodo sighed contentedly. _This is better than any dream._


End file.
